Mortal
by say mona
Summary: [ one—shot, Casino Royale. ] There was no bright, fluorescent light hanging overhead that proclaimed ‘You Are Dead’ in flashing, dazzling letters, was there?


**mortal**

He took a sip of the drink he had ordered and placed the glass back on the side of the poker table, studying Le Chiffre with a steely gaze. The man stared right back at him and James swore that he saw the flicker of a smile on the terrorist's face before it vanished, and he cast a look at his drink again in order to calm a suspicious nerve in his body. There was black swirling in the glass and the agent swore inwardly—_shit_. He was so close to winning, but the drink—

A spasm of pain shot through him and he loosened his top button. Two minutes later and James pushed himself away from the game, gasping something about dealing him out, and then stumbled out of the casino. Anywhere away from that bastard would be fine—_the suite_—so turning around and dragging himself towards the two-bedroom suite, he fumbled with the key to his bedroom and forced open the bathroom door. Bile was rising in his throat and James downed a flask of brandy he always kept in his pocket and then left the bathroom.

He was stumbling again, delirious, unsure of where he was going and rippling with sweat and general illness. The outside air hit him hard and felt like Arctic winds against his hot skin and he struggled towards his car, losing his footing and staggering to avoid falling over. There was a medical kit in the Aston Martin, he'd seen one when he first got the car and had a look through it for his standard gun—a gasp escaped James's mouth as he unlocked the vehicle and collapsed in the passenger seat.

The glove compartment refused to open, and when it did, he was trembling furiously. The life of a double-zero agent was dangerous and he was reckless—how could he have afforded to get poisoned? James would have been infuriated with himself if he had been able to think straight, albeit, the agony was tearing up his body and he was trying to listen to the instructions he was being given. Vesper—what if he lost the game and the ten million… what if—?

"James, are you listening?" Yes, he was listening, he was… "Attach them to your chest." Clumsily, like a young child learning to walk, he pushed the kit against his chest, eyes half-fluttering closed. Breathe in, breathe out, he was supposed to be used to this, but how ironic it was. An agent living in the fast lane and then he failed to notice that people could possibly think about poisoning him—stupid, stupid idiot—M would have his head if he ever lived.

"Press the defibrillator now, James—now!" Voices, urging him on again, and he pressed the button and missed. _Shit_; again, he pressed and nothing was happening—he was getting frantic now. The voices were getting frantic, too; he was going to die, he could tell. They always got worried when something wasn't going right—"James, press it, damn you!" but he was pressing it and it wasn't working; something was definitely screwed up. He was going to die; he wasn't going to complete the mission…

He couldn't breathe properly; every gasp of air was laboured and he firmly believed that an elephant or something similar was sitting on his chest, even if he couldn't see the thing. Shaking again, one final glance down and he noticed the wire wasn't connected, a look of failed disbelief fluttering onto his face as he held up the cable with a trembling hand. They really should check these things, he had time to think through another bought of pain, and then he heard the hiss of his own breath and saw no more.

- - -

It was strange, he realized, when he looked around and saw nothing but darkness. Outstretching his hand, James clenched it and felt nothing; there was no feeling within him and nothing to touch. Voices – he could hear voices, or was it just _one_ voice? He didn't know, but he did become aware of a dull ache filling him and a perpetual drumbeat striking his head—oh, god, it was a headache and it didn't feel like it was going to go away.

Something struck him and he felt like panicking but then reminded himself he could not feel. Did people get headaches when they were dead? Obviously not—or maybe they did—but how did he know he was dead? There was no bright, fluorescent light hanging overhead that proclaimed 'You Are Dead' in flashing, dazzling letters, was there? He would have at least liked a few nice angels (naked women, preferably, but then it would have been against God and whatnot) to greet him and make him feel at home.

If he strained his hearing, he noticed that there was sound coming from somewhere—people moving and someone cursing. They cursed in Heaven…? In that case, did they get martinis, alcohol and women, too? He'd rather like it here, he mused, if that was the case, but what if it wasn't? As long as there were women and alcohol, he'd be fine. Either God was very lenient or he wasn't in Heaven and was, in fact, somewhere else. Bah—why didn't they put signposts up?

James had an inkling that someone was coming to greet him. Something—someone—was stepping out of the darkness and heading towards him. He strained his eyesight and tensed slightly as the figure approached, relaxing somewhat as it turned out to be a rather heavenly woman (excuse the pun, but it was true) all dressed in white… with wings. God, if these were the people who greeted the dead, he couldn't wait to see the _proper_ angels…

"Come with me," she whispered, her hair surrounded by light; her hand seeming to radiate goodness as she held it out to him. It was so tempting, he noted, to take the hand of the woman and be led off to wherever he was meant to go, but there was another sensation pulling him and as he reached out to take her hand, a violent course of electricity struck him. _Shit_.

- - -

Blurriness greeted him as he struggled to open his eyes. It was dark again, and James wondered if he'd died for the second time and gone to Heaven or whatever was better than that _other_ place. A face swam in and out of his vision and he couldn't quite make out whom it was—it looked familiar but somehow it wasn't. Along with the voice, the figure looking at him seemed to jog something in his memory, but he couldn't place who they were.

"You're alive!" The voice was distinguishable, to say the least; a woman's, and something was telling him that he'd debated with the speaker on a train—about body language and other things. Odd—yes, he was alive, why did she sound so delighted? She'd _only_ stopped him from turning an angel bad and having glorious, out-of-this-world sex with said angel, as if _that_ was anything for her to be gleeful over.

Staring at her groggily, James finally placed her face. Vesper—_Vesper_; God, she'd stopped him from that? Ha, he'd get her later… somehow, but for now, his head was hurting quite badly and he groaned loudly.

"Come on, let's get you to hospital."

Something inside Bond clicked and told him to act quite happy about this. Nurses, his mind told him, were always good to look at—especially if they bent over.

_I've seen angels fall from  
Blinding heights, but you,  
Yourself, are nothing so  
Divine._

- - -

**author's notes :: **Again, not strictly according to the film and such, but I gave it a shot. It was honestly quite fun to write—reviews are much loved! The lyrics are from the starting song ("You Know My Name") by Chris Cornell; I don't own them at all. I just thought it went well with the ending, y'know?


End file.
